


just need you like

by susiecarter



Category: Gridlocked (2015)
Genre: Awkward Blow Jobs, Communication Failure, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Rescue, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: David draws a quick breath, and risks a peek around the corner.Three guys.Not bad. He can take three guys. Especially three guys who don't know he's coming.
Relationships: David Hendrix/Brody Walker
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	just need you like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theae/gifts).



> I saw you were asking for these guys again, and couldn't stop myself—I hope you don't mind, and happy Giftbox! :D I took your prompt for David barreling in to rescue Brody and your mention of enjoying dubcon scenarios like sex pollen, and stirred. ♥

David draws a quick breath, and risks a peek around the corner.

Three guys.

Not bad. He can take three guys. Especially three guys who don't know he's coming.

Which they definitely don't. They're sitting there chatting to each other, laughing. Kind of drunk, even, if David's any judge. Not exactly what he'd been expecting. Then again, they probably hadn't figured on anybody showing up this fast.

Just their luck they'd decided to drag Brody out of that party while he was in the middle of leaving David a voicemail. David's heart had done something unnecessarily acrobatic in his chest when it had started up with a slurred, _Heeeeeey, man, guess who's back in New York_ —and then had basically stopped dead when it ended with _seriously, what the fuck, dude, let go of me_ —

He'd been out the door with the phone still up to his ear. One cell trace later, and here he is, listening to the Three Stooges chortle to each other.

"—yet?"

"—like ten more minutes, tops—"

"—be fucking begging for it—"

More laughter, and that's when David moves.

People who are laughing hard enough have their eyes half-closed; sometimes they tip their heads back, too. And they usually aren't exactly paying attention to anything else that's going on, either.

These idiots don't seem particularly organized. They aren't hardened criminals—just stupid jackasses who think they got lucky, recognized Brody at that party and came up with some half-baked bullshit plan to kidnap him for ransom or something.

So David doesn't go for headshots. He hits one guy in the thigh, and the guy shrieks and swears and falls off his chair, clutching at his leg. The other two startle up, squawking; David nails one of them in the shoulder before he can even turn around, and lunges in, kicks the chair he was in into the backs of his knees so he goes down screaming into a heap.

The last guy has time to face David, and he puts his fists up. Hasn't really processed what just happened to his buddies, David figures, and hell, if he's going to give David the excuse, David'll take it.

One blow straight to the solar plexus folds him in two and lets David hammer the elbow of his other arm down into the guy's back, which has the convenient side effect of cracking his head hard into the edge of the chair _he_ was sitting in. Doesn't quite knock him out, though, so David follows him down onto the floor, grabs him by the hair, and smashes his head into the bare concrete.

When he wakes up—if he wakes up, though David didn't feel anything give, so his skull's probably not broken, at least—he's going to have one hell of a headache.

Nobody else is trying to get up. The guy who got shot in the shoulder is clutching it, babbling, shocked stupid by the pain; and the guy who got shot in the thigh has passed out already. David didn't get an artery or anything, he's just a wuss.

Problem solved.

They're in the basement of an abandoned building. It only takes a second to scope the rest of the place out—that end's unfinished, concrete giving way to dirt and stone and unlit dimness, but the other end's got a boiler room or something, closed door. These guys aren't smart enough to have set Brody up in a secondary location, David's pretty sure. That's got to be where he is.

The door isn't that solid. One good slam of David's shoulder, all his weight behind it, and he's got it open—and then, the second he's through it, he takes one look at Brody and swings it shut again behind him. He only broke the lock, the frame around it; and Brody's—

Well. Brody's leaned up against the wall, head tipped back, mouth open, panting. The first instant David made it through the door, he thought Brody had been hurt somehow; but he's not. He's got his fly unzipped, and _both_ his hands stuffed in there, and he's making the most obscene noises David has ever heard in his life in the back of his throat.

For a second, David is almost amused despite himself. He probably should have figured that one of these days, he'd come busting in somewhere to rescue Brody from god knew what, and discover that Brody had been entertaining himself while he waited by jerking off. _What? I was locked in here, man, it wasn't like there was anything else to do!_

But then he takes another look, and something in his gut starts to go cold. Brody's face is tight, tense; he _does_ look like he's in pain, it wasn't just David's brain putting the evidence together wrong. His face is red, sweat at his temples and his hair dark with it. His eyes are open, but he's not tracking—and then he is, blinking furiously, forcing himself to focus on David in front of him, and he doesn't look pissed or embarrassed or even sheepish.

He looks grateful. He looks desperate. He looks relieved.

"Oh, thank god, David," he rasps out, still frantically squirming against the pressure of his own hands on his dick. "David, jesus, you have to help me—"

"Christ, kid," David mutters, and crosses the room, heart pounding in his chest. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I don't know! I don't know, they—they gave me something—"

Shit. Oh, shit.

_Like ten more minutes, tops._

_Be fucking begging for it._

"They were—they said they were going to film it," Brody's gasping, straining to get the words out in between clumsy thrusts of his hips. "Wait till I was out of my head, _asking_ them for it. Fuck, oh, fuck—hell of a sex tape. Blackmail, or sell it to somebody, or—Jesus fucking Christ—"

He squeezes his eyes shut. Something claws its way out of him that sounds a little too much like a sob for comfort. He's shuddering, teeth dug deep into his lip; shit, David thinks, he's _coming_ , right there on the floor into his own hand.

But the thing is, he doesn't look any better for it. He slumps back against the wall, chest heaving—lets his hands fall against his thighs, flattening and flexing his fingers like they're cramping or something.

And his dick is still sticking up out of his pants, flushed so dark it's almost purple. David finds himself grimacing, because jesus, that just plain looks uncomfortable.

"Fuck," Brody says miserably. "I can't make it stop, man. I don't know what to do, I can't—it's not _helping_ anymore—"

David looks down at him, and bites back a sigh. "The shit you get me into, kid," he mutters, and kneels down.

He ignores Brody's dick for a minute, and sticks to the basics first. The flush isn't deceptive; Brody's forehead is fever-hot. David checks his eyes, takes his pulse. Pupils dilated, but not totally blown—but his pulse is racing like hell. Even as David's holding his fingers to Brody's throat, feeling it, it's speeding up. If that keeps up, ten more minutes and Brody'll be about half an inch short of full-on tachycardia.

Shit.

David's rudimentary combat first aid did not cover this kind of crap.

Brody's started panting again. He's—he's pressing into David's hand against his throat, mindless. His hips are already shifting against the floor.

And the thing is, David felt his pulse start to speed up. Speed up, from where it had _been_ lower. Which means maybe coming really did help, at least for a minute, even if Brody doesn't feel like it did.

"Oh, god," Brody says under his breath. "Oh, god, please, I can't keep doing this—David. David, help me. Please, David—"

David swallows; it's hard to do. His mouth's gone dry, for some stupid reason.

He shouldn't do it. He's got to call somebody, get Brody some actual medical attention. Just because there's this one idiot part of his brain that can't stand to look at Brody lying here in front of him in pain, that can't stand the idea of Brody asking David for help and not getting it—

Motherfucker, David thinks, and takes his fingers off Brody's pulse point, moves the heel of his hand to Brody's collarbone and presses Brody back against the wall. He's already on his knees next to Brody. It only takes a second to swing a leg over, settle himself over Brody's thighs.

And then he grits his teeth, sets his jaw, and drops his other hand into Brody's lap.

It's like some kind of electric current goes through Brody, but in a good way. Even before David's actually managed to get his hand around Brody's cock, Brody's surging up under his hands, doing his best to lean into David despite David's hand pinning him to the wall, hot and frantic and greedy. "Oh, fuck," he's saying, "yes, yes, David—"

David hardly has to do anything. He keeps his grip loose, even, and does his best to jerk Brody steadily, but Brody's fucking up into his hand within about two seconds, wild, hands clenched on David's thighs so tight his forearms are trembling, fingertips digging little aching spots into the muscles.

And jesus, David can't help thinking, it _is_ sex tape material, porn material. Better. Even just this much, and Brody's desperate all over again, making low whining sounds, obscene little nasal _ah—ah—ah_ noises like they're being wrung out of him.

As if David hadn't already been having enough trouble not thinking things he shouldn't about Brody, these days. Brody's kept after him since _Gridlocked_ came out, but another six months and Brody'll be settled for real back in his actual life in LA; there won't be any room left in his head for some cranky ex-SWAT asshole who saved his ass once or twice. It's David who's going to be fucking stuck with this, carrying this around in his head for the rest of his goddamn life.

Figures.

Brody squeezes his eyes shut, gropes with his hands and clutches at David's waist with one, the muscles in David's upper arm with the other. "Yes, god, god, that's so good," he pants out, and then comes all over David's wrist.

Or, well—not all over, really. Not much at all. David had subconsciously been expecting an orgasm to match the hard-on, but it's Brody's reaction that tells him it happened, more than anything else: the way Brody's head tips forward, the breath that rushes out of him, the way his body's trembling. Looser, now, where he'd been strung taut at first.

"Better?" David asks, flat, staring down at his hand. Jesus. He should not have done that. And if he had to do it, he should at least have had the good sense not to think it was _hot_.

He's just lucky Brody's got a little too much on his mind already to care whether David's dick is starting to thicken up in his jeans.

" _Yeah_ ," Brody says. He doesn't seem uncomfortable at all; then again, David thinks, he's probably pretty far past embarrassment at this point. He's just leaning unselfconsciously into David's grip on him, thighs pressed into the insides of David's knees. His hands are still on David, David's side and David's shoulder, but he isn't holding on tight. Just touching.

Not that it matters.

He does look a little better this time, David decides. Not flushed quite so harsh a color, breathing evening out some.

But his dick is still hard.

David looks at it, and waits.

And it takes longer, no doubt about it—but inside five minutes, Brody's shifting his weight, wetting his lips.

David watches him blink his eyes open and stare down at himself, and thinks he's never seen anybody look so disappointed to have a hard-on.

"Aw, shit," Brody says, with a ragged sigh.

"Tough luck," David says blandly.

Brody looks up at him, mouth slanting, and laughs half a breath through his nose. And then he bites his lip. "Look, man, I'm not—obviously this is way beyond the call of duty, even for you. But jesus, I can't even begin to tell you how much better that was."

Because what this situation really needed, David thinks, was Brody complimenting him on his handjobs.

"I can even, like, _think_ now," Brody says, and then glances down at his ragingly hard cock again. "Well, sort of."

"As much as usual," David agrees, mild, and Brody gives him a flat look.

"I know I should be a good guy and tell you it's fine and you can just call an ambulance now, but—fuck, please. Please, one more time." He stops, but too late—and yeah, it's definitely picking up again. However clearheaded he felt fifteen seconds ago, the downward slide is starting: his eyes are going glazed, even though he's blinking once, twice, trying to hang on. His breath's coming faster. "Shit, jinxed myself," he mutters, swallowing. "Please, David—"

And David calls himself a thousand furious names in his head, but somehow it's not enough to stop him from turning his hand where it was resting on Brody's bared hip, and running his thumb up the side of Brody's dick.

Brody makes a wordless noise, breath catching in the back of his throat, and jerks into the movement, and they're off all over again.

It takes about thirty seconds for David to notice. Maybe there isn't anything to notice at first; maybe Brody's just so eager for it that it doesn't matter. But the drug doesn't seem to be lifting him as far out of himself this time, because David's jerking him just like before, but this time he's wincing.

Fractionally, just a tightness around the eyes, a brief pressing-together of his teeth. But it's there.

David slows, loosens his grip. Brody whines and works his hips up harder.

"Brody—"

"Sorry," Brody gasps. "Sorry, I just—I'd already jerked off like four times before you even came in here. I'm—it's—I can't stop, but it's—shit—"

Jesus Christ. He's _chafed his dick_ , is what he's trying to say.

David bites down on the inside of his cheek, and doesn't let the look on his face change. It'll help. It'll help, and somehow he doubts Brody's going to mind. Brody might still be kind of a selfish little shithead sometimes, but he's not the only one; and it isn't—it isn't taking anything from him, not really, for David to have this. To have something to pull out and revisit once Brody's done calling him every two days, once Brody's got better shit to do than bug him all the time.

"Fine," David says aloud. "It's fine," and he moves his hand from Brody's shoulder to Brody's hips, lifts his weight off Brody's thighs—doesn't let himself think about it, just does it, and Brody doesn't seem to have any idea what he's going for until he's already closed his mouth around the head of Brody's dick.

"Oh, _god_ ," Brody says, breathless, and David feels the tension in his hips a split second before he thrusts them helplessly—which gives David a chance to grip them steady, ride the motion and temper it into a smooth slide, halfway into his mouth instead of straight for the back of his throat. "Oh, jesus, fuck, _David_ —"

It's easier, like this. David can't answer. Brody can't see his face. He can let his eyes fall shut, can let the weight of Brody's dick fill his mouth, flatten his tongue. He moved himself down between Brody's thighs, which had spread to make room for him reflexively, and his own cock is trapped behind his fly, pressing down into the concrete floor, a thwarted ache that just makes the whole thing even hotter.

David doesn't do anything fancy, doesn't drag it out or make a big thing out of it. He just sucks Brody's cock as hard as he can, lets Brody fuck it deeper into his mouth an inch at a time until he can open his throat for it, until he's sure he won't gag.

And it's the drug or whatever. Of course it's the drug. But David hasn't had anybody fuck his mouth with this kind of enthusiasm, this kind of frantic greedy want, in years, and it's fucking spectacular.

He's almost—almost—sorry when Brody cries out above him and comes. Sixth, seventh time in like an hour, so it's barely anything; David can hardly even taste it. But the rolling helpless movement of Brody's body against him, under him, is at least as good as getting to really swallow would have been.

Shit, he thinks, wry, letting Brody's dick slide out of his mouth. He needs to get a fucking grip.

He pushes himself up a little, wets his lips and rubs them dry, and that's when he realizes—it actually kind of worked.

Brody's cock is still red, fat. But it's half-hard at best, now, and Brody's gazing down at it with totally undisguised relief before he lets his head loll back against the wall.

"Holy shit," he says.

"Better," David says, and this time it's an assessment, not a question.

His voice is scratched all to hell. He ignores it, but there's a shiver passing just under the surface of his skin anyway.

"Hell yes," Brody says. "Jesus, that was fantastic. You—"

He stops short.

David looks at him. Brody's not looking at his own dick, or at the ceiling. He lifted his head up again, as David was pushing himself up off the floor, and now he's—

Now he's looking at _David's_ dick.

David sets his jaw, and doesn't move.

"Oh, thank god," Brody says.

David blinks.

He thought—he didn't know what he thought. That Brody would think it was creepy that David had gotten off on seeing him like this, or angry, once his head was clearer, that David had taken advantage of him, had listened to him when he'd begged instead of getting him some actual fucking help.

But Brody looks gratified, that's all. His mouth's slanting a little, something soft and strange and almost awed in his face; and he pushes himself up shakily onto his knees and says, "Jesus, you have no idea. I felt like such a shithead for sitting there making you get me off when I couldn't even see straight. But you were getting something out of it too, huh?"

"Brody," David says, kind of warningly.

But Brody's probably never listened to anybody giving him a warning in his life, and he clearly isn't planning to start now. He reaches out, works three fingers into the waist of David's jeans and tugs himself closer, and David grips his wrist but doesn't quite manage to actually stop him.

"Fair's fair, right? Hell, I'm still going to owe you one, dude."

"Brody," David says again, because leave it to Brody to decide this was just a matter of putting tallies on a scorecard, Jesus Christ; but then Brody pops the button at the top of David's fly, pushes the zipper down with the sides of his knuckles and rubs his fingertips along the shape of David's dick, hard in his boxers, and fuck.

"Come on," Brody says quietly. "Let me." He pauses for a second. "Please."

And David should know better than to give him the impression that that's some kind of magic fucking word coming out of his mouth. But shit, it _is_.

He's breathing too fast. His heart's pounding. He can't quite look Brody in the face.

And then Brody works the waist of his boxers down, too, and actually grabs his dick, and that's it. He can't fucking stop himself from thrusting into Brody's palm where it's curving around him, and Brody makes an eager little noise and says, "So that really got you hot, huh? I have to tell you, man, I would not have pegged you for a guy who got off on sucking dick."

"Jesus Christ, shut up," David grits out, but he doesn't really mean it; and Brody must be able to tell, because he laughs a little, swaying forward, so it comes out practically right in David's ear.

His hands and arms are still shaking some. He's clumsy, uncoordinated. It doesn't matter. David's still got his wrist in one hand, and discovers Brody's shoulder, the side of his throat, the nape of his neck, somehow making their way under the other. He holds on and fucks helplessly into Brody's fist, and doesn't let himself make a sound.

He falls apart anyway. But at least, he thinks dimly, there's half a chance Brody can't tell.

"Damn," Brody says, once David's done coming on his hand, and then he reaches out with a grin and wipes it off on David's jeans.

David manages to pull it together enough to glare at him.

Brody grins wider, and then laughs outright; and then he glances down and blinks. "Hey, check it out!"

David follows his gaze. And Brody's—Brody's actually almost soft, practically.

"Man, I never thought I'd be so excited my dick wasn't hard anymore," Brody says contemplatively, tugging his briefs up over himself. His jeans are still a little strained at the zipper, when he does it up, but that's all.

David doesn't let himself even entertain disappointment, because that would be a genuinely asshole thought when Brody's so fucking relieved. He follows suit, zips himself up, and then clears his throat and gets to his feet, and offers Brody a hand. Just because he could probably use one.

Brody grips it without hesitation, lets David pull him up—and then he keeps going, and suddenly somehow they're hugging.

"I'm not going to lie," Brody murmurs in David's ear, "I have _never_ been happier to see anyone in my entire life. Like, I know I already had my dick out and that ruins the joke, but seriously, I was extremely glad to see you."

"Yeah, yeah," David hears himself say, "now get off me already."

Brody does it—but he doesn't move away, not really. It's almost worse like that, hardly a breath between them, Brody staring David right in the face like he's looking for something.

"Seriously," Brody says, "I thought—" He stops, and bites his lip. "I don't know, man. I don't know what I thought. You wouldn't call me back, you wouldn't even text. I let you know I was coming into town, too, and zip. If I'd known all I had to do was get myself kidnapped by some guys who wanted to ream my ass and tape themselves doing it—"

"Don't," David says, sharp, before he can say whatever the hell he's going to say, that he'd have done it weeks ago, or—shit, something worse, not that David can imagine what.

"Okay, all right," Brody says, almost gently. "I'm just saying. I didn't realize this was going to be a thing with you. But I'm not—I'm not only going to be happy to see you if it's life-or-death, dude. You don't have to ignore me until I _need_ you. I'd kind of rather you didn't, actually."

David looks away.

That isn't how this works. That isn't how _David_ works. Brody ought to know that. It's pretty fucking obvious from where David's standing. Jumping in when somebody needs him is the only thing he's ever been good at. That, he can do. Nothing else sticks. He learned that lesson a long time ago.

"Hey," Brody says, and touches his face, his chin—turns David toward him again, and kisses him.

David doesn't know what to do. He waits it out, somehow. He doesn't move.

"See, I wasn't going to do that," Brody says, when it's over. "I really wasn't. I didn't think you'd let me, and I didn't want to fuck up with you if I could help it. But I'm kind of getting the impression that there are a whole lot of things you'd let me do, if you just thought I needed to, if I was just desperate enough. Things you might like, as much as you liked having my dick in your mouth, except you were never ever going to say so."

David looks at him.

And Brody smiles a little, wry, warm, tentative, and says, "Please. David, please."

There's something caught in David's throat. It aches. He can't breathe. He closes his eyes and takes Brody's face in his hand and kisses him, hard, biting his mouth, licking in deep.

After a lot less time than he wants, he makes himself stop. Stop kissing, anyway; he can't help reaching out with his thumb, rubbing it hard against the red wet curve of Brody's lip.

"You should probably still actually go to a hospital," he manages, low and scraped and hoarse.

And Brody stares at him with wide eyes for a second, and then starts to laugh. "Yeah, all right, fine," he says, and then drags David in to press their foreheads together. "Fine, you whackjob. But after that, we're banging for real, in a bed and everything. Okay?"

"Okay," David lets himself say, and then he pushes the door open.


End file.
